


And No Candle Can Replace It

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Game of Thrones!AU, M/M, So much angst, at all, enjolras does not handle things well, les amis is the brotherhood without banners, loras!enjolras, renly!grantaire, since grantaire is renly you can guess what happens, the wonderful crossover continues, trigger warnings for stages of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is an unwilling King trying to win a war, and Enjolras is the knight who believes so fervently, in his cause and in his leader. </p><p> </p><p>Game of Thrones!fusion, but knowledge of the series not necessary to understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. when the sun has set

Grantaire feels more than hears Enjolras enter his tent, but he does not look up or even greet him, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed on the papers strewn across the table. The part of him that’s rational wishes Enjolras would not have come at all, because he is at a breaking point, but the other part is ridiculously happy that he is here.

And of course, of course Enjolras does not even know anything is wrong. If he notices the tense set of Grantaire’s shoulders as he walks up behind him, warm breath hitting the back of Grantaire’s neck, he takes it as worry over this war they are fighting, and nothing else, as if Grantaire was the one who worried the most about that out of the two of them.

(He does worry. He just never worries as much, or as well, as Enjolras)

Said man sneaks an arm around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him closer, nuzzling up the side of his neck and going up to bite gently at his earlobe. Grantaire groans, and almost wishes he didn’t crave this so desperately, wishes he could push Enjolras away now and tell him what was truly on his mind.

That is, of course, the exact moment Enjolras decides to start reading his thoughts.

“What’s going on?” he breathes into his ear, both arms around him now, pulling him impossibly close, something Grantaire finds quite unfair, because he can feel _everything,_ and he is getting quite distracted.

“It’s nothing,” he whispers. “Merely the woes of a King.”

Enjolras snorts at that, and Grantaire knows the laughter is not at him, but a lump still forms in his throat, a shadow of the time before he knew Enjolras returned his feelings, a time when he lost himself in drink every night, bitterly looking at this Golden Knight and dreaming and drinking and dreaming.

“To think,” Enjolras mumbles against his skin, lips sliding over his cheekbone. “That I should find a King I could follow, amidst the idiocy of King’s Landing’s nobility.”

“You’re technically nobility as well,” Grantaire feels the need to point out – will always feel the need to point out.

He is spun around suddenly, Enjolras eyes blazing and a smile on his lips, and _oh,_ he is in that kind of mood tonight, and Grantaire feels anticipation shoot through his body, his heart beating faster, blood running warmer.

“I’ve always fancied myself a rebel,” the man grins, and Grantaire would have made a comment there, would have said something about a pretty face and the soul of a devil, but Enjolras is already proving his point as he catches his mouth in a kiss, biting his lower-lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, fingers digging into his back. It’s not a hold Grantaire could easily break out of, should he want to.

Grantaire cannot ever imagine wanting to. Not even tonight. Not when Enjolras is licking his way inside his mouth and almost bending him backwards over the table behind him, bodies pressed flush against each other, skin only separated by clothes. Ah, clothes. If Grantaire ever sits on the throne, he will outlaw clothes. Whoever invented clothes shall be hanged. Clothes are an abomination.

He’s getting distracted he knows: usually it is so easy to lose himself in Enjolras, to feel and breathe and think nothing but Enjolras, but tonight…

And it doesn’t take long for the other man to catch on either: Enjolras stops kissing him after another second, pulling away to look at his face, eyes searching in the dim light inside the tent.

“What is the matter?” he asks, and Grantaire finds it so ironic, how he is supposed to be the King between them, but Enjolras is the one so often giving the orders. At least here, when they are alone and as safe as they can ever be.

“I told you,” Grantaire repeats, reaching up to squeeze Enjolras’ forearms, because perhaps the man will not pull further away if he holds onto him as well. “It’s nothing.”

Enjolras leans closer, but only a little. “It is something.”

“No.”

“Grantaire…”

He’s desperate now, and he surges forwards to stop the knight’s talking the best way he knows, teeth clashing against each other, until Enjolras throws his surprise away: he kisses him back, and for that, Grantaire is thankful, though he knows he has only bought himself a little time. Enjolras will not let it go, not for long.

He is proven correct as Enjolras yet again pulls away, one hand now soothingly stroking his back, as if Grantaire is a pet to be reassured.  He almost feels like it: he basks in the attention anyway, like a cat in the afternoon sunshine.

“You must tell me,” Enjolras whispers, closing his eyes and pressing their foreheads together. It is an old game, and one Grantaire has caught onto long ago: Enjolras will stop hide his eyes from him, close them or bury his face in Grantaire’s dark curls or the soft spot where his shoulder meets his neck. It had started after Grantaire had half-drunkenly complained that Enjolras’ eyes were like burning embers, always intense and unyielding no matter the situation. And so, he thinks that if he does not look at Grantaire, the man will have an easier time spilling all the secrets of his world, all the doubts and dark, hateful thoughts that swivel in his head, painted in broad strokes by the colours of wine.

Grantaire closes his eyes as well, desperate to breathe out the darkness inside. It only half-succeeds, but he breathes in Enjolras and that goes a long way for a lighter mind and soul.

“She is in love with you,” Grantaire breathes that out as well, because Enjolras is a force of nature that cannot be stopped, and it will be said, sooner or later. He opens his eyes just as Enjolras’ snaps open, looking in bewilderment.

“She…”

“The newest addition to my Kingsguard,” Grantaire explains, as if that needed explaining at all. “She has come to be near you, and you only. She loves you.”

Enjolras blinks in surprise. “The maiden of Bear-island? She’s in love with me?”

Grantaire swallows heavily. “She is,” he grits out, eyes flickering away. He almost wishes Enjolras would close his eyes again, but he is starting to, of all things, actually smile.

“And you are jealous,” he concludes, and Grantaire feels his chest constrict in pain, at the mockery, at the thought of it, the truth of the statement, and the young lady-knight’s beauty and valour and skill, and why would Enjolras not love her? She is almost as passionate, as radiant, as devoted and loyal. Grantaire is undecided and frightened, and believes in nothing as much as Enjolras, when what he really should believe in is his own ability to win this war and lead the people. Save the people.

Some days, he thinks he doesn’t even care about the people. On those days, he drinks until the bottles are all empty, and Enjolras refuses to come to bed with him. War does wonders for sobriety however, war and its lack of a promised tomorrow, and it is rare that Grantaire falls asleep without the solid weight of Enjolras’ arms around him.

He wonders if he will sleep alone tonight, after this. Enjolras is still chuckling slightly.

“You _are_ ,” he says then, as if he is surprised. But how could he be surprised? Grantaire is jealous of the people who breathe the same air as Enjolras, when he is not. He knows it cannot be normal, this intense need for another person, but like drinking, this is apparently something he cannot do by halves.

“She is very beautiful,” he says then, before he can stop himself, and Enjolras really laughs now, throwing his head back, and Grantaire has not felt this wretched since his older brother first found out about his hopeless love for the Golden Knight and thought it the most amusing thing in the world. It’s like a hand has reached upwards and is squeezing at his heart, like being in love with someone so much better than him, and knowing it with every inch of his being.

And then Enjolras is kissing his way up Grantaire’s neck, and he is pulled back to here and now, away from cruel laughter and being alone with his thoughts and sins. Enjolras reaches up and fists a hand in his hair, tugging hard enough to get his attention, but not hard enough to hurt: it drives the last of those thoughts right out of Grantaire’s head, and he is left with only this man that he loves, and whatever this man would like to do with and to him.

This is apparently divesting him of his shirt, first of all. Enjolras throws the garment away from them like it has done him some personal disservice, and Grantaire is thankful that he has another person who he might sway in favour of the ‘no-clothes’ argument.

Enjolras pulls him towards the bed and pushes him down on it, straddling his waist and leaning down until their foreheads are touching again. “I do not want her,” He says. “I am here with you.”

“I know that…” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras places a hand over his mouth, asking for silence. Grantaire complies. He cannot do anything but.

“I am here with you,” he repeats, punctuating each sentence with a kiss on his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, his hand sliding away from Grantaire’s mouth and back into his hair. “And I would not wish to be anywhere else. Do you understand?”

Grantaire nods. Enjolras looks down at him and his eyes burn, even in the darkness, and this is what he had been talking about before, this flame behind the greyish blue: any minute now, it will consume them both whole, and Grantaire fears the day when that happens, much as Enjolras insists that it never will.

“I believe in you,” he continues. “I believe that you are good and kind, and so much smarter than you give yourself credit for. And I believe,” he leans down again, breathing the words across Grantaire’s skin. “That one day, you will lead us into peaceful times, and when that day comes, I will be by your side, and I will see the people rise and celebrate you like you deserve. Because they will love you, Grantaire, they will love you if you let them and if you show them what you truly are,” his lips are barely touching, moving over soft skin and hovering just at the edge of Grantaire’s lips: it is all he can do not to just surge forward now, like he had done before. But Enjolras is talking, and he knows that he must listen.

“They will love you,” lips touching in a too-short caress. “Almost as much as I do.”

He has not realized that he had been holding his breath until now, but Grantaire breathes again, as Enjolras presses him further into the mattress. He feels like he is on fire, flames spreading from everywhere the other man touches him, scalp and waist and thighs and mouth. And he is burning on the inside as well, words he so longs to hear spreading like wildfire in there.

Enjolras pushes himself downwards then, denying Grantaire the proper kiss he so desperately craves, scratching his teeth along Grantaire’s collarbone instead. “The Mormont-girl as well,” he says, before licking at the irritated skin to soothe it, and oh, if what Enjolras envisions will truly happen, Grantaire is going to outlaw Enjolras’ tongue as well.

(Except he’s really not going to do that at all)

“She will realize what we are fighting for – why _I_ am fighting for _you._ It will not just be a silly infatuation that drives her,” he mouths over a nipple, and Grantaire lets out a strangled noise, because this really isn’t fair and Enjolras needs to stop teasing. But he is still talking, still explaining, and Grantaire finds he needs to hear this more than he needs Enjolras sinful lips doing other activities.

Right now, at least.

“It’ll be the belief that we can make a better world,” Enjolras looks up at him now, head resting on his chest. Grantaire is wide-eyed as he stares back, too mesmerised to even think of looking away, though he feels trapped by that gaze, scrutinised and dissected. “She will come to believe,” he says, and Grantaire can only nod again, can only agree, because Enjolras’ eyes are burning and he is leaning up now, finally kissing him, feverishly, desperately, the way Grantaire usually kisses him, and he’s supposed to be a King dammit, and all he wants to do now right now is cry and beg for this man not to leave him.

Enjolras pulls away just long enough to inform him that he is allowed to speak now, before yet again robbing him off the ability, wicked mouth and wicked tongue doing their work until Grantaire feels like they are as close to merging into one being as any two human beings has ever possibly come.

Surprisingly, to both of them, it is Grantaire who pulls away this time, tugging gently at Enjolras hair to make him ease off. He does, looking a little put out and oddly vary, like he is afraid that Grantaire will come with a lecture, will debunk everything Enjolras just said and call him a silly and stupid idealist, and oh, alright, so that does sound like him, but that is not what comes out at all.

“I love you,” he says, because he needs so desperately to say it, and Enjolras smile is blinding like the sun, lighting up the darkness around them, and Grantaire can still see it as he closes his eyes, like gold and red painted on his very insides, and it is almost as beautiful as their mouths pressing together again, or Enjolras words echoing in his head again. _I believe in you._

Grantaire wants to whisper a thank-you, but finds there is no need. He can show him instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by Loras' line in _A Storm of Swords_ , to Sansa regarding Renly: _'Once the sun has set, no candle can replace it'_


	2. no matter the cloak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'he knows that it is true, because the dead do not lie and Grantaire is dead.'_

 

It turns out Grantaire had been right when he had spoken of the Mormont-girls affections.

She is strong, capable, fierce and clever. And she’s taken to following him around like a lost little puppy, eyes wide and adoring, and it makes Enjolras irritated to the point of actual anger, as much as it makes his heart clench, because he recognizes the looks, the longing glances, as something Grantaire would throw his way back  before all of this, when they were still hiding in King’s Landing instead of hiding among allies here.

Enjolras remembers, how they would play and train together as children, as often as they could help it once he had been sent to King’s Landing as a warden of the King, and he remembers how he had had to go back home, three months turning into eight turning into a year, and when he had come back, Grantaire had taken to avoiding him like the plague.

Even now that he knows why the other man did it, it still stings a little, as it hurt like being gutted when it was happening: how he felt like he had lost his friend, his confidante, the boy with the dark curls whose blue eyes would light up like the sun whenever mischief was around the corner. How it had hurt, back then.

It had not been until Combeferre pointed out to him that he rather thinks it isn’t dislike making Grantaire avoid him, that he realizes the truth of it.

He remembers, because it had been Grantaire’s birthday, and there’d been a feast celebrating it, and he’d been sitting with clammy, cold palms all evening, staring intently at Grantaire seated with his brother, too far away from him, Combeferre’s words running through his head like wildfire, unable to stop it spreading, unable to contain it.

He wants. He drinks too much wine, and watches Grantaire avoid his gaze, watches Grantaire look _sad_ on his birthday, and Enjolras _wants._

It’s after midnight, in the corridor, and he’s been waiting for Grantaire, and is thus able to catch him in a moment of surprise, pressing him against the wall and fusing their mouths together, pressing every _inch_ of them together, trying to steal the breath and the sadness and the idiocy from him.

“You are never going to start avoiding me again,” he tells him as he pulls away, Grantaire’s skin flushed with roses, his hair in disarray, pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black. “You are going to tell me if there is a problem, but you are never to show me and our friendship that little respect again, is that understood?”

Grantaire opens his mouth and stumbles over his words. “I… I would never…” he’s shaking, his voice is shaking and Enjolras’ hearts clenches in his chest. “I would _never_ , Enjolras, I’m so sorry, I…”

He kisses him again to keep him quiet, moving down to let lips meet the soft skin of Grantaire’s neck. “It’s alright,” he whispers, hands still fisted in the lapels of Grantaire’s jacket, still pinning him in place, because if he lets go, Grantaire might slip away like the elusive, maddening creature that he is. “It’s alright.”

Yes, Enjolras remembers that night. He’ll never forget it – will never forget the thrill of it, the happiness, and he’ll never forget how Grantaire‘s eyes sometime still clouds over, lost in memories and places Enjolras can’t follow, because they are places cast in a darkness that Grantaire will not let him see.

Right now, however, he is thank-fully smiling, eyes sparkling, looking like he might be bruising a rib in his effort not to make too much noise.

“It’s not funny,” Enjolras hisses at him, peeking around the opening in the tent. “Is she still there?”

“She’s _gone_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire lets out a real laugh now, apparently not able to stop himself. “You should see your face… it is only a woman, my dear knight. A woman capable of wondrous and dangerous deeds with the sword and the axe, but still just a person and not one of the Seven, come down to let her wrath hit you.”

“It is not her wrath I fear,” Enjolras deadpans, and Grantaire laughs until there are tears streaming down his face.

Enjolras walks over to hold him tightly, arms meeting at the small of Grantaire’s back, pressing him as close as possible. “I think I rather more liked it when you were jealous of her,” he admits, and even he will admit that he sounds petulant.

“But this is without a doubt more fun for me,” Grantaire says, eyes still sparkling in mirth. He looks breathtaking, and Enjolras would tell him, only he knows Grantaire would roll his eyes at him, would call him a liar in the secret confines of his own mind, and it makes his heart hurt to think of it. So he keeps his words of praise to himself, this time.

“Then I am glad to have pleased my King,” he says, and it is not quite a shadow, and not quite happiness that falls over Grantaire’s face at his words, but it is apprehension and joy all the same, wrapped into one, and Enjolras knows how fear is contagious, even to the brave, so he takes care to kiss it away again.

 

 

 

 

Enjolras knows a man cannot always be right, much as he would like to pride himself on being exactly that. He knows there is failure, in everyone, that even the great knights of old made decisions for the worse or committed deeds that could be considered atrocious.

There is nothing quite like making a mistake that kills the very love of your life.

Grantaire is lying dead on the table before him, and if not for the paleness _(no, that is not right, Grantaire was often pale, with lack of sleep or with drink, but he was always less so when he was with him),_ he would look like he was sleeping, blood cleaned away, clothes covering the wounds.

Enjolras hands are shaking as he reaches out to gently touch the hand lying on his lover’s chest, grasping the sword he had so freely used during his life, but when he finds the skin of it as cold as the darkest nights in Winterfell, he draws away again, as if burned.

“I am going to kill her,” he says, and he does not recognize his own voice, does not recognize himself in the swirling darkness that is rising like fog from the inside. “I am going to wrap my hands around her neck and _fucking kill her…”_

“Enjolras, we have no proof that it was her,” Combeferre’s voice is calm, too calm, and it makes Enjolras want to reach out and _hurt_ , to tear at the man and scream at him until he realizes, until he _understands,_ because how can he be calm if he truly knows that Grantaire is dead?

Grantaire is _dead_.

And it was the Mormont-girl – the girl he had insisted would shift her love for him to Grantaire, would see, like he saw, what Grantaire truly was, all he could become, he had insisted, he had _believed_ that she would be loyal – it was that girl who had thrust her blade in deep and taken the life from their King.

She who had sworn to protect him.

“She was the only one in the tent when it happened,” he gets out, anger making his voice shake. “She was there with him. Even if she did not drive in the sword herself, she failed in her duty. She failed him, Combeferre,” his hands are shaking, and he wants to reach out and touch Grantaire, but Grantaire isn’t there, it is only his body. “ _I_ failed…”

He should have been there, in the tenth, to protect his King. To protect his lover.

He had failed in the assessment of the girl, but he had failed even more in his duty.

“Enjolras…”

“Leave me,” he bids, orders.

“Do not do anything foolish,” Combeferre warns him, and Enjolras thinks that it is a foolish world that doesn’t have Grantaire in it, and does not answer him.

He spends the whole night digging a grave and placing the last remains of his King in it.

And then he hunts her down, looks through streets and cities, forests and towns barely big enough to be called towns. He sheds his armour and forgets about eating and sleeping more than is necessary, forgets about his family, still alive and joining the enemy-side, creating alliances where it is best for them, and Enjolras wants nothing to do with it, wants nothing to do with what is only another betrayal of everything Grantaire was to him.

Enjolras spends his days searching, and his nights dreaming.

And that is what they are: dreams. The nightmares are so few and far in-between, because the day is the real, crueller nightmare, and so his sleeping hours are blessed with visions of dark curls and blue eyes, lazy hands traveling down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin, and Grantaire’s voice breathless in his ear.

“You cannot keep this up, you know,” Grantaire tells him, shifting closer even as he had, minutes before, complained that Enjolras was holding him too tightly, was crushing him in his embrace. And Enjolras _is_ holding him too tightly, he knows, but he has to, otherwise the other man might disappear from him again, just as he will have disappeared once Enjolras wakes. He does not wish to wake.

But he must wake.

“Keep what up?” he grumbles, pressing his face into dark curls _(dark curls and blue eyes)_ , inhaling the scent of wine and forest and _them._

“Searching for her. Chasing her down – it will not end well. You will die from exhaustion, or she will kill you when you find her, because you are too exhausted. And even if you do kill her, what will you do then?”

_I will die_ , Enjolras thinks, but doesn’t say it. “She will not kill me,” he says, with conviction.

“Oh, because you are indestructible?” Grantaire teases. His eyes are serious even as he is smiling.

“Because you said that she loved me,” Enjolras says, and he knows that it is true, because the dead do not lie and Grantaire is dead. “One cannot ever kill what they love truly.”

Grantaire lifts his eyes to his. “You killed me,” he says, and that is a lie, so perhaps the many other words he had spoken were as well, the assurances that they would win, that he wanted to be King, that the Mormont-girl loved him, that the Mormont-girl was loyal, _‘I love you, Enjolras, truly, deeply, never leave me’._

Enjolras finds her in an old barn, drinking until her eyes are red. She’s terrified, it is clear in her eyes, and she asks him to sit with her and buys him a drink.

“I didn’t kill him,” she says. “I know you will not believe me. But it was not me.”

It is Combeferre’s words, and it is Grantaire’s words, and it is, to an extent, even his own words, but he knows the Mormont-girl to be strong and fierce, clever and independent, and there are tears in her eyes, and the dead do not lie.

“It matters not,” he tells her, and leaves her with her life intact. It is more than he has, and there is unfairness in that, he thinks.

He drinks until he cannot think straight, and that is how Combeferre finds him. He must have been searching for a long time, or maybe he found him long ago, and has been keeping watch from afar.

“What will you do now?” Combeferre asks. “Whatever it is, know that I will follow you.”

That is rather more responsibility than Enjolras’ cares to take on, and he almost laughs, because he is starting to sound _exactly_ like Grantaire, and he holds that close, much as he is vary of it, is vary of who and what he has become.

“The people still needs us. They still need you,” Combeferre keeps talking, and Enjolras thinks that he had always rather thought it was Grantaire they needed. Just like he did.

“This war between Kings is tearing the lands apart,” he says, finally, and it feels like the first words he has spoken in days. “It will take its toll on the people. They are the ones who will suffer, when the nobles and higher-ups play their petty game of thrones.” And that is what it is. Petty.

He rather thinks Grantaire had been trying to tell him exactly that.

“It is the people that we need to help,” Enjolras says, and his blood is running strong with the wine he has drunk _(for you, Grantaire)_ , but his head is clear like it hasn’t been since blue eyes were open and his lover was smiling at him. “So let it be known that it is them we will protect. That anyone, knight or commoner, stable-boy or prince, can come and be a brother to us and help us in the fight against injustice, against this war tearing the lands apart. No matter the cloak he may have once worn, no matter the banner he once carried and rallied behind or against, let it be known that he is welcome, as long as he is willing to do his… his _duty._ ” He does not spit out the last word, and he is surprised beyond himself. It settles instead, like a warm grip around his heart, and Enjolras thinks it is like something that has come back to him, rather like a broken leg finally healing enough to stand on again.

“We would rather be a brotherhood without banners, then,” Combeferre says. Enjolras smiles.

“That is exactly what we shall be.”

_(for you)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In the books, Renly's brother sends a 'shadow' to kill Renly, and Brienne, a member of his Kingsguard is blamed for it, because she was in the tent when it happened.
> 
> \- Loras goes with his family to form other alliances. But while Loras is loyal to his family and loved ones, Enjolras is much more loyal to his own ideals. That is why I instead made it so that he is the one that forms the Brotherhood Without Banners, which is basically asoiaf/got's version of les amis: a group of men (outlaws, in a way) who fight to keep the regular people safe while the war goes on. The Brotherhood gives me so many Les Amis feels, it is insane. 
> 
> \- The title of this chapter, and much of Enjolras' end-speech, is taken from words spoken by the leaders of the Brotherhood, when describing what they fight for and why. 
> 
> \- I killed Grantaire. That is possibly the most evil thing I have ever done. I am so sorry! A thousands thanks to Martina, aka Sacchan90 ( aka drunkpylades), who was supportive and amazing, even as she yelled at me for all the angst. You're the best, dear.


End file.
